Train Wreck
by ArielleArcher
Summary: The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but at least Dani has a front seat view.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue –

Sometimes there's nothing to do but growl. Under a black sky, no light, not a candy bar in sight. And me! Back curled like a cornered puppy. Stupid fecking Jayne and his stupid fecking x-chromosome. He of all people _would_ decide to be utilitarian, filching my sword for "the good of Dublin" the second I'm breathing dust, then running to Ryodan for cover – 'cause apparently, he can't watch his own back.

As if Ryo is enough to save him from the Mega's wrath. He might lead the Dudes of Doom and all, but I bet he's never shoved a Snickers wrapper-first into his mouth, or broken his nose zooming along at the speed of light. Those sorts of experiences have made me cautious, nauseous, and hard as feckin' steel. More than a match for Conan the Barbarian. Soon as I get out of this mess, I'm slipping into Chester's and sending Inspector Jayne sailing on a one-way trip on the S.S. Styx.

No Wi-Fi, no refunds.

'Course, that'll make life seriously screwy for all the peeps in Dublin who ain't got the sense to shove a flashlight down their bra or a MacHalo on their head… but maybe TP'll be around to jump in with her spear or set up another patrol or somethin'. Sure as fecking won't be _me_ around to help, since right about now I'm pretty much bursting at the seams with pixie dust and drool, thanks to the feckin' faerie Princes shoving theirdicks in my face.

They're laughing now, but _dude_. When Christian comes back, he's gonna kick their royal Unseelie asses. Only wish I could be there to see it.

If Ryodan kills Jo when I don't show up for work, I'll kick _his_ ass. Bargain my soul with the devil to let me haunt Chester's and crap and they'll have to, like, exorcise me from level four. Fecking-A! A gig as a ghost with superspeed sounds almost as good as being Dani Mega O'Malley! Guess I'd have to possess Dancer to get my paper out, but every silver lining has its cloud.

_Adiós,_ Robin, and hello Hell Rider!

_Dancer better remember to play Skillet at my funeral_.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1 –

Ain't nothin' scares an abused animal like being caged. Most dudes'll say it's for the animal's own good, but me? I know better. Put a dog in a crate or shoot him, don't much matter. Nine times out of ten, he wasn't holdin' out hope of ever being free again.

Lor shoves open the door, revealing a not-bigger-on-the-inside-than-it-looks-on-the-outs ide room. Interior lined with steel, no windows. A mattress and a…bucket.

"In here, kid."

I snort. "Chamber pot?"

"Just be glad you don't have to empty it." One hand grips my wrist, the other propels me inside. He crowds me until we're halfway across the fecking room. When I try to freeze-frame, he squeezes. The pain threatens to bring me to my knees; I fight it.

"Stop struggling and it won't hurt," he growls.

"Back. The feck. Off."

"I will. When you're ready to play nice."

I tell him where he can play. Only, compared to the state of Dublin right now, it doesn't sound half so bad, so I guess I'll have to work on getting some better insults. Then I ask a question that we both already know the answer to.

"How long?"

With the heel of his boot, Lor nudges a plastic bracelet of water bottles and a few granola bars out from underneath the mattress blanket. "Long as the Boss wants. Could be a few hours, could be a week. He was ticked."

"And Mother-fecking-Mary forgive anyone who rustles the rooster's feathers," I scoff. Honestly, though, if I moved like he did I'd probably strut, too. Heck, I _do_ move like him – well, maybe just a few milliseconds slower – and I'm the self-made Mega! Guess it all goes back to '_shake what your mama gave ya'._

I tell Lor as much. He starts to laughs.

"Honey, solitary's going to be a bitch. Get through it and I'll buy you something nice."

I flip him the bird.

Day one is adrenaline shots and escape plans. I burn through half a package of Chewy's being a Dani-Missile, freeze-framing around my cell in a search for weaknesses.

Zilch. Zip. Nada.

Day two is me bored out of my fecking _brain_. By day three, I'm just plain pissy. Who does he think he is, shuttin' me away whenever I get on his nerves? Do I get the choice to shut him away? Big, fat, _feckin'_ no. He gives me that death-scowl the minute I try, pulling out the contract card and waving Jo's life under my nose.

I watched enough Judge Judy to know that a contract signed under duress won't hold up in court of law. Even if it did, it sure wouldn't give him the rule of me! But until I'm certain that Jo can't be harmed, I have to play by his rules and dance to his tune. Doesn't mean I gotta like it. World's full of things I don't much like but put up with.

By day five, the chamber pot is full and I've eaten all but three of the granola bars. I pass time by yelling random obscenities at the corners where I've spotted security cameras. When my voice breaks, I pretend the wrappers are Ryo's throat as I crumple them. Slowly. One-by-one.

By day six, I wonder if he's forgotten me. Me! The Mega! But my ma did, and she was the one that went and birthed me. After experiencing that kind of neglect, a person learns not expect too much out of humanity in general. That might be why I rely so much on myself –s'not always fun, but at least I know that I won't up and leave me in the lurch.

My mind noodles aimlessly. Woozy. Food's been light lately, but that ain't nothin' new. this feeling's gotta come from the silence. Normally Dani O'Malley doesn't _do _still, but entertainment in post-apocalyptic juvie's been a whole bunch of me starin' at the wall and starin' at my feet – not terribly exciting. 'Stir-crazy' is a bit more accurate. But still the understatement of the century.

I burned through my last pair of high-tops the other week. Found some yellow-and-black converse in an outlet store that Dancer suggested I case… _Abso-fecking-lutely_ awesome shoes – neon laces and everything. Make me feel like a Dani-Bee; zing, zoom, sting, can't catch me!

Only now, thanks to the Robin Hood and his band of not-very-Merry Men, the Dani-Bee's drifting low. Limp. Feeling like a _whap_ and smear on a windshield. The kind that only comes off with a fiber cloth and a good muscling. I think, _therein lies the problem_: muscles.

See, usually I don't take bull from folks. I guess I'm sort of a feminist. Someone wants to take a swing at me, I'm not gonna whine about it or faint, I'll swing back with interest. That usually works out great. But then there's this bull, this one that shows up out of nowhere and sticks to the shadows, and suddenly I'm a pansy. Thinkin' things like, He looks a sight bigger'n meaner than me (and that's saying somethin'), and that I don't especially want to prod him too hard. He don't talk a whole lot, but dude's got a mean hook and glare.

And no, that ain't me giving up or giving in…The Mega never backs down. It's just that I'm realizing I'll be sporting some nasty bruises until I grow up and gain mega-strength as well as mega-speed and smarts. That also means that I gotta stay on my toes. Superheroes may be able to puff their chests like wild gorillas and ooze unconcern while they chow down on bananas, but Dani-Bee's, they ain't got no chests to puff. They gotta dart in and out quick-like if they want to make their mark, because the Big-Leaguers outsize them.

So that's why my eyes gotta stay peeled to Ryo. Because he's no gorilla – in Dublin, he's the fecking King of the Jungle. If I'm not careful, he'll squash me before I can yell _Holy heartbreak, Batman!_ I get the feeling that even Christian wouldn't be able to bring me back from where Ryo'd send me.

Plopping back down on the mattress, I heave a mournful sigh. The only thing left to do is hope the Abominable Snowman comes along and ices some poor dudes. And geez, what kind of feckin' awful superhero does that make me? A surviving one, that's what.


End file.
